I am flying

Young, strong, confidant

Slipping quietly, gracefully through the brisk morning air

Weightless in body and spirit

My eyes wide and searching, I smile

 

Ahead of me dark menacing clouds flash and thunder

Moving away, threatening some other time and place

For now the Earth below me is green and wet

Soaked and shimmering in God’s fresh new day

This storm has passed me by

 

To the East

The sun, now a huge orange blaze

Surges upward from behind high rocky peaks

Pushing both dark shadow and shimmering light downward

In a dazzling race towards the quiet valley below

 

Blue-green mountains glimmer in the rising sun

Warming the lush damp foliage

The flaming ball is so close, so bright, you can almost hear it roar

As billowing patches of pure, white mist escapes from the hills

Only to be captured then dispersed by invisible winds

 

To the West, tawny sand covered beaches

Sprinkle down to a sparkling emerald sea

Peacefully I watch as milky white caps appear on wave tops

And roll endlessly towards the shore

Breathless beauty, my heart fills with joy

 

I move constantly forward, free of pain and worry

The only sound is the wind

As it rushes over me, fresh and clean

Whistling sweet musical notes through my hair

Caressing my body with its warmth

 

Above me is an endless pale blue sky

Washed clean after the evening storm

I am soaring through the Canvas of God

Painted here on His Masterpiece for this tiny speck of time

But it is my time

 

I am filled with exhilaration, hope and wonder

The world is mine to conquer and explore

I am ageless, alive, and free

I have time, a whole lifetime ahead of me

And I have just begun

 

On the horizon I see many clearings

Passed over by the storm

Small patches of tangled ground amidst the lush landscape

People, one, two, or more, shift about within them

Moving around aimlessly as if lost, abandoned

 

Approaching I see others farther on

Marching away from the clearings

Hard, courageous, determined, sharp-eyed young men

On line, moving slowly, cautiously across the ground

Pursuing the storm

 

It is to one such clearing that I am irresistibly drawn

I know not why

Yet it is here I am compelled go

My joy is fading

Some new feeling of dread claws at my heart

 

Reaching this clearing I float above two small figures

Around them hangs a foggy mist

Waiting for the sun to burn it away

The air is humid, growing hotter

And down here there is no breeze

 

Everything is wet, sparkling in the now bright sun

Tall yellow grass lies bent and trampled

Crystal clear rain rests on broad, green leaves

As pure, cadenced droplets fall into small, scattered puddles

Yet make no sound

 

These two have been left behind

One is prone, on his back, lifeless

He is dressed in tattered shorts, baring skinny, leathered legs

Sandals on his feet, arms thrown out to his sides

The other man kneels over him, obscuring the dead man’s head

 

As I draw closer this man’s back is to me

Caught in the storm he is drenched

Wearing a dark green T-shirt

Camouflaged, bloused trousers

And scuffed, mud-covered jungle boots

 

His short blonde hair is cut to a high and tight

His head and arms tanned to a deep bronze

Sweat pours off his head, down across his young face

And drips onto the now uncaring man below

As the sun bears down steam rises from his dampened form

 

A scoped rifle lies spent and discarded to his right

Behind him rests a worn, crumpled flak jacket

Along with a faded, sweat stained jungle cover

Dropped haphazardly down by his feet

The mission now over, their purpose forgotten, they are useless

 

Hunched over the dead man

So engrossed in some gruesome task

He is oblivious to everything around him

Head bowed, he never looks up

He now has but one single objective

 

His arms move upward, above the dead man

Grasps at something and then return

First one arm

Then the other

Over and over again

 

Movements choreographed like a perfect dance

As taunt muscles across his back and shoulders

Flex and release under his wet shirt

While a pair of silver dog tags swing to and fro

In a silent rhythm from a chain around his neck

 

No words are spoken

Not a sound can be heard

Yet his anguished thoughts come through to me

“Dear God…if I can fix him, we will be okay…

If I can fix him, we will be okay…Dear God…”

 

Again and again he repeats the words,

“Dear God…If I can fix him we will be okay…

If I can fix him we will be okay…

Dear God…If I can fix him we will be okay…

If I can fix him we will be okay…Dear God…”

 

All the while continuing his hidden task

As his arms reach out and upward

First one, then the other

Grasp and then return, grasp and then return

“Dear God…If I can fix him we will be okay…”

 

My flight has ceased

As I hang suspended above him, motionless

Transfixed, mesmerized

I can feel is heartbeat, his pulse, his pain

His desperation

 

“Dear God…If I can fix him we will be okay…”

With all my strength I try to break away

Oh to fly again, far from this terrible place

But all my struggles are in vain

As I sink closer to the ground

 

I turn away, hoping to escape

But my eyes are only drawn to another clearing

Just yards away

Were many people are dead

And still others are dying

 

They are old and young

Men, women and children

Scattered about in a haphazard circle

Like porcelain dolls thrown violently up into the air

Only to break apart upon landing

 

A vehicle, torn and twisted, burns by the side of a road

Uniformed men rush about

Putting out fires

Helping those who cry out

Others, with weapons, search for the demons who caused this

 

My eyes are drawn to one such young man

With an eerie feeling that I should know him

He runs with his weapon at port

Towards a distant hill

Just as he has been ordered

 

Again I hear no audible sounds from the clearing

Only what this man hears and his anguished thoughts

Inhuman screams of pain echo in his mind

As he runs past the dead and wounded

And glances at them only with hesitancy

 

He is young, innocent and this carnage is gruesome  

“My God! This can’t be real!”

He cries out in his terrified mind

Yet he continues to run towards the hill

Fighting his growing panic as the training kicks in

 

He stops by a man lying on the steaming highway

Looks down at him, then raises his head and cries out,

“Corpsman up! Corpsman up!”

The man below him has one leg gone, a hole in his chest

“Corpsman up!” he yells again

 

An older man steps out from between two trucks

Taking a cigar from between his teeth

He says in a gentle voice,

“Forget it son, he’s already dead.”

But the voice sounds as if in slow motion and very far away

 

He looks at the older man

And starts to say, “But Gunny, he’s still breathing.”

But instead takes one more look at this poor soul

Then runs off towards the hill

Passing more mangled bodies

 

I try again to break away, to fly again

But it is no use as I watch this man run on

Again he has stopped

Drawn to an old man’s snowy white beard

He pauses over the old man and we see as one

 

The old man lies on his back

Both arms stretched out to his sides

As if he was Christ on The Cross

His long pointed beard sits neatly upon his chest

As if someone had come by to groom it

 

A long, thin white mustache fits perfectly across his upper lip

While his bald scalp is picked clean back to his ears

But once there to start long locks of pure white hair

That had somehow escaped his scalp

Only to run flowingly down to his shoulders

 

His face is restful, as if sleeping

Except that his dark brown eyes are wide open

Motionless, gazing straight up at the cloudy sky

Together we look deep into this old man’s eyes

Hypnotized by his death stare

 

Amazed that his eyes seem to be still alive

Clear and moist, yet unmoving

As a tear pools in one corner

Collects, then overflows the socket

To slide slowly down the old man’s cheek

The old man’s head and chest

Are untouched by the violence of his death

As we search down from his head to his chest

Slowly sliding our gaze to the horror we had glimpsed

When the young man had come upon him

 

All the while knowing what is not there

Yet unable not to look

Until we come to his waist

Where the old man has been cut in half

His hips and legs are gone

 

Feeling a gut wrenching ache in our stomachs

The young man turns away to retch

Only to find nothing to expel

He gasps, takes three deep breaths,

And runs off to the top of the hill

 

And I, felling sick, take my eyes off his lone figure standing there

Finally able to once again turn away

I circle to the right to see that I am now yet closer to the ground

But only to come upon another clearing

To see a man huddled down in a muddy trench

 

The trench is three feet deep

Its sides, first marked from the carvings of an E-tool

Are now smooth and worn with weather and wear

Sandbags once stacked neatly around the lip now lay in disarray

Baked and blackened over endless time by a merciless sun

 

This man lies curled on his right side

His body pressed hard against the false security of the trench walls

Legs drawn up tight into his chest

Both hands clasped behind his head

Holding his chin down

 

Every muscle of his body remains hard and tense

A human ball lying in three inches of muddy water

His mind races with fear and utter helplessness

Yet this man is no coward

He would not be here if he was

 

His rifle stands braced upright against the wall

Useless as his enemies are now unseen

And out of range

In this fight there is nothing he can do

But pray

 

For now it is up to his Brothers in arty or the air

To stop this rain of death with their own

He knows that this onslaught will only last a few minutes

But time is always relevant

And here, in this hole, seconds can last a lifetime

 

Again all is silent except the sounds in his mind

And once again he shares them with me

Together we hear the dreadful ‘thump…thump’

As the mortar rounds exit their distant tubes

And together we count off the seconds to impact

 

We hear the deafening explosions as each round hits

Experience the blasts of hot air rushing over him

Feel the ground around him violently shake

As chunks of damp earth flake off the trench walls

And rattle down upon him

 

It seems as if the earth itself is trembling on its axis

As it shudders then tries to right itself

Only to be shaken again and again by this assault of hot steel

Night after night wearing him down

Shattering his spirit, his mind, his soul

 

Like the earth, this man will right himself

And tomorrow, if he finds them

He will again bravely face his enemies

For he has a warriors heart

But for now this heart only knows fear

 

He is ashamed of these feelings

And wonders if others are as afraid as he

For in his young mind

Brave men do not cower in holes

Knowing no better he has labeled himself a coward

 

But these thoughts will fade with the morning sun

As for now he continues to pray

With each incoming round

Erasing his odds of ever leaving this shallow grave, he pleads,

“Dear God please don’t let me die like this…”

 

Until finally, pushed to the end of endurance

His mind needs to escape

And thus goes forth where he wishes to be

Leaving his aching, trembling body in this muddy trench,

His mind simply goes home

 

Again I force myself to turn away

No longer wanting to face this terror

Nor feel his self-imposed shame

For he thinks that he is a coward

That with his fear he has dishonored his Father’s name

 

I close my eyes as I turn

And wonder at this young man

He is too young to understand

He is too proud

Too brave

 

Why does he not understand

That in this treacherous land

Every time he and his brothers pick up a rifle and move out

With every cautious step they take

While out on patrol

 

Every time they climb into a chopper

To be whisked away into the deadly unknown

Every time they step out of that airborne vehicle

And onto an unfriendly LZ

They are braver than the brave

 

That is courage

Courage that most will never know, or recognize

And yet because he feels such terrible fear

He brands himself unworthy, a coward

He is still just too young to understand

 

That the man who faces such dangers

And is aware of the dire consequences

Yet feels no fear

That man is not the hero

For that man is merely the fool

 

I open my eyes

To find that I have moved yet again closer to the earth

And before me is yet another terrible clearing

In the middle stands a lone figure in battle gear

Facing The Storm

 

Both his arms are raised towards the sky

With clenched fists, he shakes them violently upward

With every muscle straining

The veins in his arms and neck seem next to bursting

His face is grotesquely twisted with his savage rage

 

Again there are no sounds to be heard

But I perceive his angry shouts in my mind

Such rage, such fury,

I can feel it take control of my own being

And it is terrifying

 

He stands cursing God for The Storm

For his Brothers who have died and suffered

For the innocents who have perished

For the destruction, the pain, the waste

The futility

 

He swears at the Lord

For creating The Storm

For allowing it to happen

For not stopping it

For seeding The Storm so it grows perpetually stronger

 

As I feel his rage

I can sense from where it breeds

It is born from his pain

Growing from his frustrations and fear

Aging as he bears witness to the increasing annihilation

 

Until finally his rage reaches its maturity

Bringing him to the very edge of insanity

With that appalling, agonizing realization

That The Storm will never end

And will only move eternally on

 

Yet deep inside this man

I sense an uncertainty

A hesitation in his vindictiveness towards God

An inner acknowledgement

That his God is not truly at fault

 

For he knows that it is only man

Who perpetuates The Storm

That it is the evil among men that feeds the thunder

And generates the lightning’s flash

Which will ultimately destroy us all

 

But he knows too that no man will listen

Or give regards to his savage rage

But in his utter fatigue and disconsolation

He must vent or go insane

So to God he casts his anger

 

I have seen and felt too much

I am now desperate in my agony

To once and evermore turn away

To fly from these dreadful clearings

With a frenetic hope that my youthful ecstasy may return

 

I gather all my strength

Summon every ounce of my will

And with one gigantic effort

Strain my body upward

To catch the wind and to fly away

 

Yet with all my efforts,

Heartbroken I only find

That I have sunk even closer to the ground

And now suspended, spin slowly in a circle

As the dreadful clearings pass by

 

In one I see a Corpsman covered in blood

Kneeling over a wounded young man

But as he has done all that he could to save him

He now holds him as the boy dies

And speaks to him in soft loving whispers

 

For the boy in his delirium

Believes that he is once again in his father’s embrace

Asking to be taken home

And the Corpsman knowing these are the last words he’ll ever hear

Weeps as he tells the child he loves him

 

In another a baby, small naked and brown

Is fished from a swirling river

Limp and turning blue

As a mother, and her mother, cry out with such an agonizing sorrow

Of which I have never known

 

My rotation is slowing

As I see and feel one more image

Of young man who has stepped on a mine

Shredding his legs and groin

Crying out in an agonizing fear that he has lost his manhood

 

As the spinning stops

I have given up all hope of escaping this terrible place

And resign myself to the fact that my flight is over

By giving myself up to the bondage of the earth

Only to find that I have come full circle

 

Finishing my descent to the wet terrain

I now face the man crouching over his lifeless foe

And touch down softly, first with toe, then to heel

With a deep sickening sorrow of knowing

That I will never fly again

 

The weight of what I have witnessed

Is finally too much to bear

As my knees buckle, I fall and pitch forward

Striking the soft moist ground on hands and knees

And bow my head to stare, unfocused, into the mud below

 

Like a distant echo his chant drifts back to me

“If I can fix him, we will be okay…”

Slowly I raise my head

To look once more on his unknown task

And stare in silent horror as it is revealed to me

 

The top of the dead man’s head is fractured

Into three fists sized jagged pieces

Yet there is no blood, no gore

Each piece fits like the parts of a puzzle

As they magically float, one at a time, into the evening air

 

Still oblivious to my existence

The young man catches one piece with his right hand

But as he returns it to its proper position

Another piece floats away

So he catches that with his left

 

Yet once replaced they will not stay attached

And with only two hands

But three ghastly pieces

He cannot hold them all down

Thus resulting in this desperate and eternal task

 

Like a well trained juggler

The man never misses a beat

Right-left-right

Left-right-left

All the while reciting his desperate plea

 

“Dear God…if I can fix him we will be okay…

If I can fix him we will be okay…”

Right-left-right…

Then without disruption in his movements

He raises his head and faces me

 

His young face is streaked with dirt

His pearl white teeth shine against his tanned features

He is young, very young

Except for his dark blue eyes

Ringed with blackened circles, they are old

 

He looks through me as if I wasn’t there

These eyes show no spark, no hope, no tomorrows

His eyes tell me that he has seen violent death 

And it seems, as if, somehow,

These eyes have foreseen his own

 

He lowers his head, returning to his task

His face haunts me, troubles me

He is too familiar

I know this man

For his face is mine

 

My head again drops

I close my eyes

As tears rush out and down my cheeks

For now I know

The Storm had not passed me by

 

For I had passed through its terrible, destructive eye

At once I realized

That all of this death, guilt, sorrow, grief and anger

Of which I had believed I was only a witness

Were actually my experiences, my life

 

But why am I still here

Why are any of us still here

Why are we all still trapped in these nightmarish clearings

Frustration and anger grows within me

Until, with all my strength, angrily I shout,

 

“The Storm has passed, why don’t we just go home?”

And an unknown multitude of voices

Over eons and eons of time

Whisper back to me as one

“We are home…”

 

My heart is crushed, not broken

For to say it was merely broken

Would falsely imply that it could be repaired

And like the task of the man now before me

There are things one can never mend

 

Then I knew

That somewhere

Out among these countless clearings

Lies a corpse less cemetery

Filled with endless rows of white markers

 

A marker for everyone who was ever caught in The Storm

And among the many names etched upon them

I would find mine, with the dates

B. 1950 – D. 1970

But my Brother’s bodies and mine are not buried there

 

Our loved ones never received that fateful telegram of

“A grateful nation …”

Yet the young men our loved ones once knew surely died here

As our youth, innocence, and dreams were buried here

So many years ago

 

With head still bowed I open my eyes

And watch as my tears fall into the water below

As my eyes start to clear and focus

I see that my tears will not mingle

With the pure, clear liquid it tries to join

 

It is then that I feel the sensation

Which was there as soon as I touched down

Of a tingling of my skin on hands and knees

And wherever else this water has touched me

There is a stirring that I have never felt before

 

Then came the knowledge, which had escaped me

That this wasn’t rain from The Storm

For The Storm brings only death and destruction

Leaving behind the pain, the sorrow and grief

But never a soothing relief of rain

 

I rise up to an upright position

Freeing my hands from the grip of the earth

And cupping them together

Scoop up this pure, fine liquid

And splash it onto my face

 

As the magical fluid cleanses my face,

Then runs down to dampen my chest

I can feel my sorrows being lifted

And as my spirit refreshes

I understand from hence it came

 

For it is not rain at all

And comes not from The Storm of devastation

Nor any dark and thundering cloud

For it is too clean, too pure,

Too Holy

 

It is my Christ who sends these showers

As He weeps at what He sees

Of what His children can do to each other

When The Storm thunders and strikes its hatred

Engulfing all mankind

 

In His never ending sorrow

His tears rain down from Heaven

To cleanse this earthly home

To wash away our pain and sorrow

And to give us hope once more

 

 

 

Michael Tank

USMC

Scout/Snipers

’69 – ‘72

 

09/08/06

 

 

"Copyright 2006.  Michael E. Tank   All rights reserved. No part of this document may be copied, faxed, electronically transmitted, or in any other manner duplicated without express written permission of the author."